A Baby and a Vacant Room
by pkmndaisuki
Summary: Dr. John H. Watson should be happy. He's about to be a father. Though, throughout this happiness and bliss, something feels amiss... Especially since he still can't move on from Sherlock's death... Speculative AU, Updates Tuesdays.
1. A Mental Decathlon

**A/N:** This story is a speculative AU take on the Sherlock series. Dates and events presented in this are based around those based on the original canon, referring to "The Adventure of the Final Problem" by Arthur Conan Doyle. This also explains the appearance of John's wife Mary Morstan Watson, a character who has yet to appear in Sherlock.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

May 4th, 2011. A date I should never want to think back to, but I know I must. The day I lost my closest friend and companion to the Napoleon of Crime himself. It's been about one year since that black day. The visions haunt my mind still, ever so vividly now that it's May again. The trek through the Continent, the eventual stopping in Switzerland, the climb to those dreadful falls (I can't bear to even think of their name without fear of my eyes watering), the false call from the hotel, my friend sending me along, knowing in the back of my mind that there was something in his eyes that didn't seem normal for him, realising that the call was a ruse, every heart-pounding, muscle-aching bound of my legs as I ran in vain to save him. His scarf, neatly folded where he last stood. The new application on his phone, the notepad with his last letter to me. The visions get blurry after that. Probably because I was so close to sobbing. My anguished screams of my friend's name, trying to cling to some small distant sliver of hope, some tiny hope that he was still alive... but I know he's not. He's gone. He's dead. Sherlock Holmes is dead. He and that damned Jim Moriarty, crushed on the rocks and rushes of Reichenbach Falls.

The sound of distant sirens pull me from my aching reverie.

These memories are painful. My chest hurts from them. I can feel my face heating up, my eyes water. I can't stand it. I wish he were here. Wish he could be here so that I could actually be happy when I'm supposed to be. And I really ought to be. For right now, I'm in a cab, speeding through London, with my wife on the verge of delivering our first child. We've decided to name the boy after him. We probably would have anyway, even if he was still alive.

The sirens are getting a bit louder now, and I reluctantly allow the cabbie to pull over in hopes that it's someone I know. It is. The familiar subtly bullish face and silver hair comes into view.

"DI Lestrade. What're you speeding for- John? John Watson? What the devil are you- OH! Carry on, man! I'll escort you!" He's a good man, Lestrade. He's been such a good friend to both me and Mary after Sherlock's death. I wish I could remember his first name. I'll ask him when we get to the hospital.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

I guess I ought to be glad I was on patrol in the first place when I pulled ol' John over. If it'd been Donovan, she'd probably do the same as me. Dunno if he'd be as relieved as he was to see me, though. If it had been anyone else, he'd probably be worried. Though, he'd have no need to. Even though Sherlock wasn't an official member of the force, most of us were honored that he'd help when he did. I sure as hell was glad he'd work with me, at least.

I see the hospital come into view and we head to the emergency area. We stop beneath the awning and I help get Mrs. Morstan-Watson out the cab and John and I escort her in.

"My wife's about to have her child! We need to get to a delivery room!" John barks at the staff, clearly in military-mode, albeit a slightly panicked version. A couple of the nurses arrive and bring her a wheelchair for her to sit in while she's taken to the room. John's holding her hand, stroking it, telling her that "It's gonna be okay. You can do this, Mary, just breathe," and that sort of thing. I'm followin' close behind, flashing my badge when necessary and sayin' "I'm a friend of the family" when that doesn't work so I can stay with 'em.

Eventually, we get to the delivery room, and I'm stuck sitting in the waiting area, while she and John go in. I guess John's allowed in with her since he's her spouse and the father. Bonus points that he's a doctor, too. Trying to catch my breath - I'm not exactly a young man anymore, if my hair's any indication - I spot a vending machine across the room. Fishing my wallet from my trouser pocket, I purchase a couple bottles of water, one for me and one for John. Doubtless he'll need it later.

I glance over into the room and see John right by Mary's side as she's leaning forward with the fifth most pained expression I've seen on a woman's face before. (I ain't saying what the first through fourth are.)

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

"_Breathe_, Mary! _Push_, Mary! You've got this, Mary! Just a little further!" I shout so much encouragement to her, but it's not all for her. It's for my own reassurance. I've never had a child before. Neither has she. This is hard on both of us. The yelling is all I have between my hopes and my fears. The only defense I have to stop those fears from clouding over my hopes. I keep shouting. "Come on, Mary! He's almost here! You're almost done! Just keep going! Almost there!" God, it sounds like I'm coaching a marathoner. That's what this is, a mental marathon. More like a decathalon, really. Fear, denial, grief, acceptance, drifting, joy, worry, assurance, anxiety and...

Crying.

My little boy is crying.

He's alive. I look to Mary, who's rightfully exhausted. I'm beaming at her. "You did it," I say. She returns the sentiment with a weak smile. The nurse measures the boy and cleans him up. Seven pounds, four ounces. Nineteen inches. A healthy, average baby boy. We're eccstatic, as much as we can show, anyway. The nurse then hands the boy to Mary. I don't know if I've seen her happier. She's glowing with pride, even moreso than at our wedding over a year ago. The nurse tells me she'll be back with the birth certificate sheet for me to fill in. I decide to take this opportunity to allow for some mother-son bonding and for me to remember Lestrade's first name.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

John comes out of the delivery room tired and grinning from ear to ear. Guess the kid's okay. I stand up to shake his hand in congratulations.

"Thank you, Lestrade," he says. Doesn't he know he can call me by my first name by now? "Though, I do have one question, and this may seem a little odd. In fact, I'm a little embarassed I have to ask you." Do I want to know where this is going? "What's your first name again?" Oh. That's all?

"It's Greg. Thought I'd told you?"

"Right! Greg. Sorry, I guess I'm just so used to calling you Lestrade that I forgot. I mean, that's what he'd call you, too, even though you'd known each other far longer than we had." Still can't say his name? God, John, it's been a year. Guess Sherlock's passing hit him harder than I thought.

"No worries. Why'd you ask, though?"

"You'll see," he tells me, thanks me for the water, and goes back into the delivery room. "I'll let you know when guests are allowed in. Oh, and if you could give my sister a ring, that'd be great," he called, tossing me his mobile. I manage to catch it in one hand. Who knew I'd still have the old reflexes for it? "It's 'Harry' in my contacts."

"Got it, John." He nods a thanks and ducks into the doorway.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

"How is he?" I ask of our son. Mary's got a serene smile on her face. I'd wager it'll be forever planted across her face.

"Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful. I'd say he looks more like you than me."

"Well, I'm willing to bet that he's got your eyes, once he opens them." She nods. I sure hope he does. Such brilliant glass-blue eyes would be a nice contrast to the rather bland appearance of my own features.

"What was that chat with the Detective-Inspector for?" I'm about to answer when the nurse returns with the paper and a pen. I smile.

"You're about to find out." I see that his date and time of birth, May 5th, 2012, 11:42 P.M., length and weight are already accounted for. All that's needed are his name and parent's signatures. I open the pen.

**Sherlock Gregory Watson** I write. Mary shows her approval and signs the paper. I sign it myself soon after, and hand it back to the nurse for filing.

Sherlock Gregory Watson. It has a nice ring to it. Bearing the names of two of my greatest friends these past couple years. And, it gives him the option of a normal name once he reaches such an age, Greg. I muse to myself what Sherlock's reaction would have been if he'd known we'd named our son for him. I wonder now what Greg's will be when I explain why I asked for his name?

He'll probably be speechless.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

I'm speechless. John named his kid for me. Well, the middle name, anyway. Still, I can't seem to utter a word for a good minute or so.

"You okay, Greg?"

"Yeah, yeah... Wow... Thank you, John. I'm honored," I finally manage to say. I think I'm getting a little emotional over this. John puts his hand on my shoulder, obviously seeing it, too.

"Think nothing of it. You've been a great friend to myself and Mary, this past year especially. I'm just glad it wasn't Anderson who escorted us!" We share a laugh at this. I'm glad he still has a bit of humor to him after all that's happened to him. I hope this happiness lasts for him.

If anyone in this world is deserving of true life-long happiness, it's Dr. John H. Watson.


	2. Feelings

**A/N:** I know this is starting a bit slow and sweet, but it'll pick up pretty quickly. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

"Did you ring Harry?" John asks me as I hand him back his phone.

"Tried to, got her answering machine." John gives that old exasperated sigh of his. Must be a common thing with his sister. "I left a message, though."

"She's probably in a meeting or something. I'll try myself." He puts the phone to his ear. Still looks exasperated, but suddenly perks up. Must've gotten a hold of her. "Hi, Harry! It's John. He's here." I'm pretty sure I can hear squealing on the other end. "Yes, and I'd like for you not to pierce my eardrum before he does." I decide to check in on Donovan and the others over at the Yard.

_John's kid's been born. Am at hopsital with him. G. Lestrade_

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

"So, what's his name, then, Johnny?" Harry asks me.

"Sherlock Gregory."

"Aww..." she says sweetly. "Now, while I understand the Sherlock, where's Gregory from? Mary's side?" I shake my head instinctively, even though I know she can't see me.

"No, no, you remember me telling you about the Detective Inspector? That's him."

"Oh! How sweet. Yeah, he tried calling earlier. Got his message a second before you rang."

"Where were you?" I ask, hoping it's a good answer. It is.

"Meeting. Got a new chip, too! Six months!" she cries jubilantly. I honestly couldn't be prouder of her. She'd been struggling with alcohol for years. Took a good talking to for her to finally start going to meetings. An even harder one to get her to sober up.

"Congratulations, Harry. Well done. Keep it up!" I encourage her. Even though I'm the younger one, I often feel I'm taking care of her more than she is me.

"Will do, sir!" She's probably mock saluting me right now. I smile to myself at this thought.

"Right. Well, I'd like it if you'd come down to see him."

"I'll probably show up in a few. Doing groceries now, and I need to stop back at my place to put 'em up. Once I'm done that, I'll pop over."

"Wonderful. Can't wait to see you. You're gonna love your new nephew."

"I know I will. Later, Johnny! And congratulations."

"Thanks. You too. Later." We hang up. I love being able to have a civil conversation with my sister again. I really do.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

_That's great news. I might stop by when I get a minute, if that's alright. S. Donovan_

_Yeah, when you can. G Lestrade_

"Who're you texting?" John asks. I jump up a bit, not expecting him to be done with his conversation.

"Donovan. Just letting some of the Yarders know where I am. How's your sister? She coming over?" John gets this wide grin on his face. That's something I haven't seen much this year.

"Yes. Once she's done her groceries, she'll be here."

"That's good. Donovan's gonna be here when she gets a minute. Do you mind?" John shakes his head, still smiling.

"No, not at all. The more the merrier."

John's really happy. I can't help but smile myself just looking at him. The very image of a proud father. Head held high, chest out, shoulders back, and a twinkle in his eye to go with that silly smile. I can see from the window that Mary's really happy, too. She's blushing just holding her son.

"You ought to be in there, John. Can't have your wife hogging your kid, huh?" I ask with a smile. He laughs at this.

"You're probably right. I just hope I don't fall to tears holding him."

"Ah, you won't. All smiles," I assure him as I pat him on the shoulder. He nods and walks in. I sit back down and watch. They make a lovely family.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

"Permission to hold him, ma'am?" I ask as I enter the room. Mary giggles a bit as she looks to me.

"Permission granted, doctor!" she replies as I reach for him.

There's really something to be said for holding an infant. Feeling that weight in your arms. Squirming a bit as it tries to familiarize itself with where it is. You feel as though it's so fragile that you must take absolute care in holding it, even though you'd want to hug and squeeze as hard as you can. You hold them, cradle them in your arms, keep them close to your heart. Feeling their own tiny heartbeat against yours. Feeling their little breaths against your arm. It's beautiful. The most beautiful feeling in the world.

"Hiya," I say to him, hoping he'd understand me. "I'm your dad." I feel myself choking up a bit at saying this. God, I'm such a softie. I think Mary's smiling as big as she can, but I can't really tell. My eyes are glued to our little boy.

Our little Sherlock.

"Dr. Watson? We need to take the boy to the nursery," a nurse tells me. I really don't want to let go, but I know I must. He needs a nap, Mary needs rest, and, frankly, so do I. My stomach grumbles a bit. After a bite, then.

"Of course." I hand her little Sherlock and turn to Mary. "You ought to get some rest yourself."

"Mmhm," she agrees and yawns a bit. "I want you to be the first face I see when I open my eyes, okay?"

"Wouldn't have it any other way. I love you, Mary," I say as I kiss her.

"I love you, too, John," she says as we part. I walk to the door, turning to her before I go.

"Pleasant dreams, love."

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

John comes back out of the room a minute after the nurse disappears down the hall. He seems a bit tired, though he's holding his stomach, so he's probably hungry.

"Heya, John. Need a bite? I think I saw a cafeteria on the way up here," I offer. "I could use something to eat myself."

"Sure, thanks."

We head down the way we came a ways until we get to the cafeteria. We each decide on a small sandwich, him a ham with cheddar on rye, myself a tuna on wheat. John gives me a funny look about my order.

"Doc says I needed the protien," I explain. John nods in understanding.

"Glad you're listening to him, for once," he teases. I give him a smirk and a playful punch in the arm. He smiles back.

We finish our sandwiches and head back to the delivery room where Mary is. On our way, a nurse comes rushing past us at full speed.

"What's that? Another delivery?" I ask. To our horror, we find out pretty quickly. That nurse isn't after another delivery. There's a whole bunch of other nurses heading into the same room.

Mary's room.


	3. It's Not All Fine

**A/N:** Short chapter this time. Compressed for the emotional impact. Get your tissues, you have been warned. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

No.

No. No.

No, no, no, no, NO! There can't be anything wrong. There can't be. There just CAN'T! Mary's fine. She just rolled over onto the call nurse button is all. It's an accident. A complete accident. She just_ has_ to be fine. She _is_ fine. All fine. Still, I rush over to the room. I think Greg's calling my name, but I can't really hear him over my own pounding heartbeat. I barge in, demanding to know what's going on. I see nurses and doctors surrounding Mary. She's convulsing. Struggling. Her heart is racing. Her eyes are clamped shut, she refuses to open them. She's sweating.

"Mary?" I call weakly to her. She immediately opens her eyes to me.

"John!" she struggles to say. "John... I... V..." she manages. I notice that her eyes are dilating and slightly fogging. The I.V.? I look over to it. I see and don't notice anything.

I observe and see small bubbles that shouldn't be there.

"The I.V.'s been tampered with! Unhook her! She's been poisoned!" I cry to the other doctors. They quickly remove the needle from her hand. One of the doctors asks two of the nurses to prepare a detox. They leave.

"John..." Mary's voice is weakening. I manage to get to her side and hold her good hand.

"What is it, Mary? Do you know who did this?" I ask. The next word to come from her lips horrifies me.

"Moran."

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

I see the frantic doctors and nurses scrambling around Mary. John trying to comfort her. I think John said something about her having been poisoned. How could this happen? This is a hospital. John then gets a horrified look and quickly turns his head to the window, trying to catch my eye it seems. I stare right at him, awaiting my message.

"The baby," he mouths.

I nod and dash down the hall to the nursery. I don't know who I might find down there, but whoever they are, I won't let them anywhere near my friend's kid. I make a quick call to Donovan.

"Get a squad to surround the hospital! Someone's made an attempt on Mary Watson's life! Make sure no one can get in or out!" I order. I don't even wait for confirmation before I hang up, still running. I make it to the hall where the nursery is when I find a tall figure out front of it. "Hey! You! Stop! Scotland Yard!" I yell. It gets his attention. He runs before he even has a chance to open the door. I feel the added adrenaline rush and dash after him.

We must have run all through that bleedin' hospital. He runs to the stairs to the roof. I give chase. He takes the steps two at a time. I take 'em three. He makes it to the roof before I have a chance to grab him then and he opens the door; a huge gust of wind pushes out. I hear a constant thudding noise.

Helicopter.

He practically leaps into it. I call Donovan. "The suspect's escaping via helicopter! Order a full pursuit!" I know I can't stop him where I am, but she and the other Yarders could. As the helicopter takes off, I think that the man looked a bit familiar. Then I remember John. I rush back the way I came, to tell him that the police are on it. They're gonna chase him down and stop him. That the baby's fine. They'll all be fine.

Except... it's not all fine. John's standing in front of a now empty delivery room. Frozen.

"John..." I say, to make him aware of my presence. He tilts his head up a bit, but doesn't look at me. His eyes are red. He's been crying. Hard. He stands there like that for a good minute or two, unblinking. His mouth, stuck in the number one most heart-wrenching frown I've ever seen on a man. On anyone. "John?" I repeat. He now turns his head to me, slowly. He looks me straight in the eye and barely opens his mouth, his voice but a whisper.

"She's gone, Greg," he says quietly. "Mary's dead."


	4. Sniper

**A/N:** Now the story really begins, as does the case. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

I can't believe I'd ever have to say these words before we were both old and grey. "She's gone, Greg. Mary's dead." I can barely see him through my tired eyes. I feel as if there's nothing left in me. I'm a zombie. My wife is dead. Poisoned. Murdered. Greg walks closer to me, starting to lift his hand to my shoulder. I nod, allowing him to comfort me. He places his hand on my shoulder and squeezes it. He looks at me with a mixture of sympathy and confusion. Like he doesn't know what to say or do. He moves his hand from my shoulder and slides his arm around them both, leading me to the chairs. We sit.

"I'm so sorry, John. So, I'm going to give you a piece of good news." Good news? My wife is dead. "Your son's fine."

I light up a little. He's okay. "How?" I ask.

"Simple, I didn't let that creep get to him. Stopped him before he even got to the nursery door."

"Did you get him?" I ask hopefully. He grimaces.

"I chased him all through the hospital, eventually getting to the roof. There was a helicopter waiting for him. I've sent the squad out to chase him," he adds quickly to reassure me that they'd get the job done. I don't have much hope they will, though. If this guy was smart enough to have a helicopter in wait, he probably knows all kinds of ways to escape. I sigh and stare at my shoes. Greg's hand tightens on my shoulder again. "Look, we'll get him. Maybe not tonight, but we will. As soon as possible. And, um, not to make you worry more, but... the guy looked kind of familiar."

Familiar? Someone Greg would recognize... Wait - what was it Mary said?

"Moran," I whisper. "Mary said 'Moran' was responsible..." I start. Greg perks up at this and snaps his fingers.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran? I knew he looked familiar! He's one of the guys from that case we're working on, remember? He was one of the gamblers playing with Adair," Greg says, referring to a case we're working on together.

My head wanders back to a few days ago. A young man from Australia was part of an elite card playing club. He won pretty much every game, with a pretty sum to match. Colonel Moran was one of the men he'd often play with. The way in which Adair died was pretty peculiar. A gunshot wound, but no gun. Lestrade called saying it was a tricky one and wanted me to help. He said he'd understand if I couldn't come over since Mary was due any day, but I went out anyway, at her urging. I took a close look around the body and on the body itself. Instantaneous death, straight through the head. The bullet was rather oddly shaped, but I knew a sniper bullet when I saw one. The peculiar thing is that it was military-grade. No civilian could get a hold of one. I then peered out the window, noticing another building across the street with a view of this one. I asked if we could go over there. Lestrade looked at me kinda funny, but we went over. Just as I thought, the window on the fifth floor had a clear view of Adair's room on the second. Sure enough, we found the bullet casing on the floor nearby. Our sniper was there.

However, we had no solid proof to convict anyone. We had the how, but not the who. Not even the why yet. So, we've been fiddling for the last few days, trying to come up with something. Moran had made an interview with the Times about the loss of Adair, against Scotland Yard's wishes, so his photograph was in the paper. That must be how Mary knew it was him. Seeing the connection between this man and my wife's death, something in me clicked. I regained composure. I guess one could say I've switched to military mode.

I'm going to catch Moran if it's the last thing I do.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

I know that look. John's made a connection. He's got a new resolve, and I ask him what it is. He tells me that he thinks the Adair case and this situation may be more connected than we think.

"What, like Moran being the culprit in both?" He nods. I sigh and move my arm from my friend's shoulders. "Well, that may be so, but we need proof. We need to find him..." My mobile buzzes in my pocket. It's Donovan. "Lestrade. Speak to me."

"We lost him. We're trying to get back on the trail now, but even if we find the helicopter, I doubt he'll be in it." Not what I wanted to hear, sergeant. I run my hand over my head.

"Right. Well, keep up the search. Let me know if anything more develops."

"Yes sir. Donovan out." I sigh and hang up.

"They lost him. They can probably find the copter agian, but doubt he'll be in it," I repeat to John.

"Well, if that's what we've got to go on, I'll take it. When they find it, I'm coming with you." John looks a bit scary when he's determined. I nod. It'll be good to have him on the case. Though I worry he's a bit too involved now, I know he can handle himself. But there's just one thing...

"What about your baby?

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

As soon as Greg asks me that, I open my phone and search through my contacts. While I'd like to let my sister do it, I don't know if she'd really be able to. Thankfully, I've got a back up - a young woman I met at the clinic. Rebecca, I think her name was. "Should be in here somewhere..." I mumble.

"Who you looking for?"

"A sitter. A girl I met at the clinic. Just moved here from America two months ago. Great with our child patients, even our infants. Name's Rebecca." I find the number and text her.

_The baby's here. I might need you to watch him tomorrow. Would you be availible? JW_

God, I'm still doing the initial thing Sherlock used to do. And now I think to myself why on earth would she be awake at 12:17 in the morning? Even so, my phone buzzes.

_Sure! I'd be happy to! Just give me a call when you want me over! -Rebecca_ Heh. Two months living here and she still says "call".

_Thanks. And we use "ring," not "call." JW_

_Oops. XP Sorry! Bad American! lol - Rebecca_

I'll have to ask her what "XP" means in this context later. Right now, I've got to arrange to get my baby and me home. As I stand to find him, I see a woman running over towards us, chased by Donovan.

"Johnny!" she's yelling.

"Harry?"


	5. Feel Like Home

**A/N:** The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

Looking at her, I can easily see that this woman is John's sister. Same color hair, albeit curled in a perm. Similarly shaped faces, even roughly the same height. Don't know how exactly she managed to get in, but if she's any sharp as her brother, I think I can come up with a good assumption or two.

"Johnny!" she calls him. "Are you all right?" She has him in a close embrace.

"Yeah, m'fine. Or, I will be, anyway," John says.

"Oh, god, John! When I saw the police cars around, I was so worried! How's little Sherlock?" Harry asked as she released her brother.

"'Sherlock'? You named him after Holmes?" Donovan asked. Glad she's been just calling him by his last name instead of "freak" like she always used to. Probably 'cause he's dead, rest his soul. John nods.

"And your boss," he says, pointing to me with his thumb. I think I'm blushing a bit.

"Really?"

"Yeah, his middle name's 'Gregory.'" Donovan smiles at this.

"How _sweet_," she says, teasingly.

"Watch it, sergeant, I'm still your superior officer!" I point out. She stands at attention.

"Yes, sir!" she states, a little mockingly, I might add.

The four of us head down to the nursery, John and me going over what happened to the ladies. According to John, as soon as the nurses came back with the detox kit, Mary'd gone into cardiac arrest. They tried CPR, defibrilators, the works. But, she was too far gone. John knew it too, as soon as he saw her eyes, but he didn't want to.

"Some days I wish I weren't a doctor. Oblivious to all the techno-babble. All the signs."

"But, hey, if you hadn't seen the signs, would you have figured out she was poisoned?" I ask. John gives me a weak smile.

"Point" is all he says. We keep walking til we reach the room. We all stare at the little boy. One of the nurses inside notices us and lets us in. John immediately picks up his boy and cradles him close.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

He's so precious. So sweet. So innocent. Has no idea what just happened. He'll never see his mum. Never remember her voice. Probably won't understand what happened to her until he's at least a teenager. I feel so sorry. I can't explain to him what happened. I can't tell him someone killed his mum and tried to kill him too. I can't even explain to myself why. Why would Moran do this to me? Is it because I'm involved in the case? Is it because I was in the army, too? Is it because I'm friends with members of Scotland Yard? I have no clue.

All I want to do right now is hold my boy. Hold him close to my heart. Hold him forever and ever and never let go. But I have to. If only just to make right what went wrong tonight. I have to go home. Though... it won't feel like home much anymore. Not without Mary. Maybe I should just move back to Baker Street? I'm sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind... Oh, what am I thinking? She's probably found another tenant in the past year or so. But, I guess I should ask myself why I thought of Baker Street in the first place?

Is that really my home?

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

John's been standing with his son in his arms in silence for the past two minutes. He's had some funny looking faces, so he must be mulling something over. The nurse is staring at us as we all stand there in silence. She coughs a little.

Don't think John was expecting that.

"Dr. Watson, will you be taking your son home this evening?"

"Am I allowed to?"

"Yes, you are," came a voice from behind us. It was the doctor that headed the birth.

"Dr. Cartwright. I really can?" John asks again. He's like a kid who's just been offered a free bicycle.

"Yes. You'll just need to sign a release form." John probably would have jumped a good couple metres in the air if he wasn't holding the little one.

We all walked with him outside. Harry said she'd drive them over to John's place. John agreed and asked me to text him as soon as we found the helicopter. I told him I would and he went off. I really want to find that Moran. I want to figure out what proof I need to peg him for this. I want justice. For John.

If anyone in this world is deserving of true justice, it's Dr. John H. Watson.


	6. A Fresh Pair of Eyes

**A/N:** And so we begin the actual case, as well as introduce a new viewpoint. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

I can't believe I actually slept at all. Sunlight is coming through my window. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hope that when I roll over, I'll see Mary over on her side of the bed.

Nope.

But I do see that it's now 10:34 in the morning. Which means I'm obviously taking the day off. Oh, right, I did call in to take the next week off from the clinic as we left the house. Forgot about that. God, I'm a mess.

Speaking of messes, I sure hope Sherlock didn't make one in his sleep.

I walk over to his bedroom towards his cot. He's just laying there, sleeping soundly. And, yeah, I can tell he's left a steamer. Lovely.

"Sherlock. Wake up. I've gotta change your nappy." I try lifting him up. He starts squabbling. "Just like your namesake. Stubborn. Figures." I manage to get him to the changing table and get him cleaned. Smells awful. Though, I admit, I've smelled worse, this is still pretty bad. Ugh.

All part of parenting, I suppose.

I heat up his formula and, after a bit of fussing on his part, finally get him to take it. If this is some kind of joke about his name and how Sherlock wasn't one to eat anything unless he demanded it, I'm sending a complaint in the collection plate next time I decide to go to service.

Suddenly, as I'm still feeding him, my mobile buzzes. Trying to juggle a baby, a bottle which they can't hold yet, and a mobile is the ultimate parenting circus act these days.

_Found the helicopter. E-mailing you the location. G. Lestrade_

Well, time to call Rebecca.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

"Well, there it is, in all of its completely cleaned out splendour," I tell John as he arrives. He strides up with a confused look.

"Clean? Completely?"

"Yes, we just had a look and couldn't find any trace of it having been used recently," Anderson tells him. "Nothing against you, doctor, but I don't know why you're even here."

"Well, I'm not Sherlock, but I did pick up a thing or two from him. You didn't move anything, did you?" John asks.

"No. All we did was look. As is our job as crime techs."

"Which you studied for years in uni, I understand. Then, I don't suppose it'll be much of a problem to look at it with a fresh pair of eyes, huh?" Heh. Looks like swagger was one of the things he picked up. Though, John does it a bit better - more subtle.

John then clambers up into the copter with gloves, a magifying lens, and foreceps.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

_Seats: hoovered. Control panel: washed. Steering: washed. Windows: washed. Carpet beneath seats..._

"What's this?" I whisper to myself. There's a small spot on the right hand side in the floor of the copter. Looks set in. Feels set in. But I might be able to pry up a sample with the foreceps...

"Anderson! Would you hand me one of the evidence baggies?"

The Viewpoint of Crime Technician Anderson

"Sure. Here," I say, handing Dr. Watson one of the small plastic bags.

I admit, I'm a little confused; irked as well. Sure, he's nicer than that freak, Holmes, was. Not as sharp tongued. But still, what right does he have interferring with my job? Does Lestrade have no faith in me? Calling in an amateur to do _my_ job. The job I was _hired_ to do and am _paid_ to do? Who gives this man the right to take over?

Well, at least he's nice about it. At least he's actually tried being nice to me. I can respect that.

"Here." The doctor hands me the bag now containing a small lump of clear substance.

"Where was it?" Lestrade asks him.

"Under the right hand side of the control panel."

I thought we looked there? Did we really miss it? Maybe I ought to look into purchasing a pair of glasses, just to be on the safe side...

"Right. I'll send it to the lab to be examined." He goes right back into the copter. What else does he expect to find? A piece of lint we missed? I let out a small sigh as I admit to myself I really do wonder what else that man can find.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

Nothing else in the front end that I can see. As for the back... something appears to be lodged between the seat and the wall... If I can just get my foreceps in there, I might be able to pry it loose.

"Anderson! Be ready with another baggie!"

The Viewpoint of Crime Technician Anderson

Again? What is it this time?

"Got one at the ready, doctor." He emerges with a metallic object between the foreceps. A bullet case.

"Found this between the back seat and the wall. Was the man shooting at the squad that was after him?"

"Donovan did mention he shot at them once through the side. I guess they figured the case fell out into the street," Lestrade answers. I can't help but wonder if it means something, finding that bullet case. Though... it does look familiar.

"I think I've seen a bullet case like that before. Recently, in fact." Both the doctor and Lestrade stare at me quizzically. So, I want to contribute. At least tonight I actually have a chance to.

"Really?" John asks as he hops down to the ground. "Where?" He's sincerely asking me for my input. Internally, I'm shocked. Though, I do my best to hide it.

"In the evidence in the Adair case, I believe. It's the one you found in the house across from his room."

He smiles at me. Genuinely. I hand him a bag for the case. He places it in, I seal and label it as I did the sample, and we return to the lab at Barts. The whole way back, John's being nice to me. The amateur. Genuinely nice. To me of all people, one who Holmes never seemed to like. Then again, I didn't like him much, either. Sure, he was brilliant, I'll give him that. No way I'd ever give him the satisfaction of knowing that, though.

That man would probably be over the moon to hear it.


	7. Eureka

**A/N:** Kind of a short one this time. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

We get to Barts and hand Molly the unknown substance and take the bullet case down to the evidence with the Adair case. Anderson takes out the bag with the bullet case we found earlier.

"Now, it might take a little time, but I'll compare the two cases to see if they came from the same gun. I'll try to be as fast as I can." I'm surprised at how civil he's been lately. Not as "annoying" as Sherlock would have put it.

"Great. Thanks, Anderson," I say.

"You're welcome, doctor," he replies. Now, why's he still calling me that? I call him by his name, not "crime tech".

"You know, you can call me 'John' if you want to. Or, 'Watson' if you're more comfortable with last names. You don't have to keep calling me 'doctor'." He stares at me as if he's dumbfounded. He blinks a couple times, then he gives me a slight smile. Don't know if I've ever seen the man smile before.

"All right, Watson." He then leaves, taking the bullet cases with him.

The Viewpoint of Crime Technician Anderson

That Watson really is a kind soul, I must admit. Anyway, I have to get this to work. Here's hoping the magnifier works properly today. For once, I'm really motivated to get this done as quick as possible, like I used to before that freak Holmes came along.

Now then. Let's look at caliber... the microstamp... breech markings...

Consistent.

We have a match.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

Anderson's running back in here like some kind of lunatic. Almost expect him to start yelling "eureka."

"They match!" he exclaims a little short of breath. Mine and John's eyes go wide. "The bullet casings came from the same gun. All we need to do is find the gun and trace it back to whomever."

"Then we've no time to lose. You said that it was a military-grade sniper rifle before, right, John?" I ask. He nods.

"Yeah. I'd reccommend you go through military records of any sharpshooters who may still be in possession of their firearm," he tells me. I nod in agreement. He then turns to Anderson. "Five minutes of analysis and you figured it out. Brilliant job."

I think Anderson's gonna cry.

The Viewpoint of Crime Technician Anderson

I'm not going to cry. I'm just beaming is all. Anyone would, if someone they didn't know appreciated them just said they did a brilliant job. Especially if his colleague did nothing but belabour them with insults for years.

"Thank you, Watson. And... you're not too bad yourself. You're the one who found the cases. If you hadn't, I'd have nothing to go on." He smiles back.

"Well, thanks, Anderson. Now, then, while you all do your job as Yarders, I ought to go home and do my job as a father. Can't bear to stay away from him for too long. Good luck!" he calls. Lestrade and I nod farewell. I'd forgotten he'd just had a son.

"Say, Lestrade, what's Watson's boy's name?"

"What, I didn't tell you? Sherlock."

It figures.


	8. That Was Awkward

**A/N:** All John this time. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

"I'm back!" I call as I open the door to my place. I hear giggling from the sitting room.

"Oh, hi, Dr. Watson! We were just playing a game of 'peek-a-boo' and started giggling! He's just the cutest little guy!" Rebecca, the babysitter tells me. I smile in agreement.

"Yeah, he is. How was he?"

"Wonderful. No crying or anything. Sure, he got a little fussy when I went to feed him. But you said he'd done that before, so I didn't think much of it. I changed his diaper a half hour ago." I chuckled a bit at this.

"We more commonly call those 'nappies', Rebecca." She started to blush a little.

"Oops! Sorry! I'll get it eventually," she says. Last March when we were working together, she didn't know what I meant when I told her to take off this one boy's jumper. She said that he wasn't wearing one, that boys didn't wear jumpers. Confused, I pulled the jumper off the boy myself. She then smacked herself in the forehead and said "Oh, so _that's_ a jumper! I thought you were talking about a dress!" It was all I could do to stop myself from roaring with laughter. The kid, however, started laughing like a loon. That made me crack and start giggling. She then joined in on the laugh-fest. When I told Mary when I got home, she got a good laugh, and I started up again. We both needed it.

"Not to worry." I get out my chequebook and pay her for her service. "Thank you so much."

"Sure thing! Happy to help! Good bye!" She then leaves. Nice girl, that Rebecca.

"What do you think, Sherlock? You like her? You want her to come by and play with you more often?" I ask my baby boy. He giggles his approval. God, he's got the most brilliant eyes. Just like his mum's.

* * *

><p>A few hours later, I'm sitting on my couch watching telly with little Sherlock lounging about on my chest. I try moving his head around a bit so he doesn't get my shirt pressed onto his cheek. I'm going through programmes when I fall on one of those detective shows Sherlock was always making fun of. I'll never forget that one time I caught him watching telly. 'Of <em>course<em> he's not the boy's father! Look at the turn ups on his jeans!' Never would have guessed he'd be a fan of those.

Huh. Well, what do you know? I'm reminiscing about Sherlock and _not_ nearly tearing up. I must be getting better.

Though, my legs are starting to fall asleep from sitting there on the couch all afternoon, as are my buttocks. I could use a bit of excersise.

"Hey, Sherlock? What do you say to a walk in the park, eh?"

* * *

><p>This thing isn't a stroller, it's a bloomin' tank! Why couldn't they make these things easier to maneuver? It's like trying to push a wheelbarrow through a moor or something.<p>

All part of parenting, I remind myself.

I finally find a good sized empty bench to sit at and park the battle cruiser next to me. As I sit there in the nice summer air, I start looking around.

I see a man jogging. I observe he's diabetic and trying to keep weight off since I see an insulin device poking through his shirt and a bandage on his right pointer finger.

I see a couple of kids riding bikes down the path. I observe they are trying to get away from some sort of prank due to the recent looking scratches on one boy's legs that look like they came from climbing a fence and the fact that there's a bit of fresh mud on their shoes.

I see a couple women walking towards me. I observe they want to talk to me since they're walking straight at me now, eyes glued to my son.

"Aww. What a cute little baby! Taking him out for a day in the park? How sweet!" the first one remarks. I nod in thanks.

"You must be the best caretaker in the world!" the other one says. Huh. They don't see that he's my kid?

"Actually, he's mine. I'm his father." They both stare at me like I'm kidding. So, I nod my head in his direction. The two look back and forth from me to him. Then they see the resemblence.

"Oh! I'm sorry."

"It's all right."

"So, you're giving his mum the day off?" the second one asks. Strike two.

"No, I'm a widower." Their faces fall. Not my fault. I guess it's not the common thought. Though, it seems as if only now they notice my wedding band.

"So sorry."

"No, don't worry about it. I do appreciate you two stopping by to chat, though." The two ladies nod and say good-bye.

Well, that could have gone better. Way to make things awkward, John. Geez, it's almost no better than my first major conversation with Sherlock. By conversation, I mean us talking in equal parts rather than me ask a question and him rattle off every last detail about my service in Afghanistan, my sister's drinking, and half expecting him to tell me Bob's my uncle.

Angelo's. Relationships. And the emergence of what I guess has become a bit of a catch phrase of mine, "It's all fine."

Yeah, that was awkward.

It's almost dark now, so I figure we ought to go home. I start guiding the hummer back down the path when I accidentally run into an elderly gentleman. He ends up dropping all his books in the process.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry! You all right, sir?" I ask, helping him pick up the books. One looks like an astronomy book, another I think is a Poe work. When I hand them to him, he just grunts, swipes them back and continues on his way, not even looking at me. I raise an eyebrow. "Well that was odd. And rude. Anyway, let's get home, shall we?" I say to Sherlock, and we head back to our place.


	9. What

**A/N:** The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

Have I ever mentioned to anyone how much I hate how slow the process is? 'Cause I do. Severely. I thought we were making good progress today, finding the poison and bullet casing in the copter and finding out they matched in a manner of minutes, which I think is a personal record for Anderson. I thought we'd surely find something to prove Moran had something to do with this today.

Yeah, doesn't look like that's going to happen.

Donovan's been pouring all her time into looking into military records. I've done a bit of hunting myself. We did eventually find Moran in our system, but he's clean as a whistle. The perfect honorable soldier.

How I hate him for it.

I've almost come to my wit's end. I know this guy's involved with the Adair case. I know he killed Mary Watson. I know he was the one in the helicopter. I know that the two bullet casings are the same, that traces of the poison used to kill Mary were found in the copter, I know that. But I just can't prove it. I have no idea how to truly put Moran in both situations. The links are there, but I don't have what's necessary to weld them into a proper chain.

I sigh and run my hand through my hair. Dammit, Holmes, why'd you have to die? Could really use your help right now.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes. I pick it up from the corner of my desk. A text? Unknown caller. Who the hell has this number?

_Tonight, you'll have your final link. At Baker Street, you'll find your man. Wait outside around 11pm._

What's this, some kind of tip? Now who would send me one?

_SH_

I think I stare at the screen for a good three minutes before finally exclaiming...

"**WHAT**?"

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

I've just put little Sherlock to bed. I myself am once again camped out on the couch in front of the telly, this time with a nice cup of coffee. I'm about to turn it on when there's a knock at my door.

"Who could that be?" I mutter to no one. Not Lestrade, he'd text. Harry'd call. And I see no reason for anyone else I know to come and knock on my door. A stranger, then. But why would a stranger come to me?

Another knock, this time a bit louder.

"Coming!" I tell my mysterious visitor. Maybe it's a package for me, or something. But that makes no sense, I didn't order anything and my birthday's not until autumn... I look out the peep hole and find...

The old man I ran into in the park. I decide to open the door for him.

"Yes?" I answer. The old man looks up for a second and smiles sweetly.

"Hello there, sir. Terribly sorry about my attitude not too long ago," he says with a raspy high-pitched typical 'old man' voice. "I've come round to apologise."

"There's no to need sir. It was my fault entirely. I'm not used to driving a baby stroller..." I start, but he puts his hand up to stop me.

"Now, now, I'm talking about my rudeness. You were only trying to help me pick up. And all I did was grunt at you. My mummy taught me better than that, she did." Mummy? Now why does that strike a chord? It's not that unsual a thing to call one's mother. I then look at this man and see that he looks exhausted. Probably because he followed me all the way home.

But all that just to apologise?

"You seem tired. Would you like to come in? I could make you a cuppa if you'd like," I offer. The man smiles a bit wider.

"Why, thank you, sir," he says and I let him in. I show him to the sitting room and offer him a chair. "Though, if you don't mind, I'd much rather like a spot of coffee." I head into the kitchen to make it for him, leaving him in the sitting room.

"Sure. How do you take it?" I ask him as I get down a mug.

"Black, two sugars. Really, John, you should know this by now," a smooth baritone voice calls from the sitting room.

I freeze. I know that voice. I carefully set the mug down on the counter before I break it. Slowly, I turn around, looking down at first. The outfit of the old man, white hair and all, are now on the floor of a much taller man's feet. The feet lead up to legs. The legs, a thin torso. The torso up to a pale neck. The neck up to a head with familiar face and mass of curly dark hair I thought I'd never see in person again. Watching me with such brilliant grey-blue eyes, breathing and smiling at me, physically standing in my sitting room...

Is Sherlock Holmes.


	10. You're Alive

**A/N:** The plot thickens. A little short. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

"Sherlock... is... is it really...?" I stammer. I can't believe my eyes. Sherlock Holmes is standing in front of me.

"Yes, John, it's me." I hear him. I see him. But I just can't believe it. I pinch myself in the arm just to make sure I'm not dreaming. I flinch a bit in pain. He's still there. I slowly walk over to him. Tentatively, I raise my right arm to take his. Seeing what I'm trying to do, he raises his left to meet mine.

I gripped him by the sleeve and felt it. It was the same thin, sinewy arm I'd always known. He was even wearing one of those nicotine patches beneath it like he used to. It's all I can do to keep from fainting right there dead away in his arms. That would be embarassing. Though, at that moment, I didn't care much about whether I was embarassed or not.

My friend was alive.

"Sherlock!" I exclaim. I embrace him. I start sobbing into his shirt.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

Not exactly the response I was expecting. Is this what friends do after not having seen each other for one year? He's holding me rather tightly. Repeating my name over and over. Keeps saying "you're alive, you're actually alive" all while crying into my shirt. I hope his nose isn't running onto it, too. I admit, I'm unsure of what to do. Not used to all this... emotion. Especially not directed at me.

"John," I say. I decide to return the gesture and gently pat him on the back with my one free arm, my right one. I then grip his shoulder. This isn't too bad. It's good.

"Wait a second," John says.

Suddenly, John stops speaking. He takes me by the shoulders and has me at arm's length. He stares at me for a short while, seems to be sizing me up. He looks bothered by something. He then stares at my right cheek.

"What is it, John?" I try saying, but I'm cut off before I can say his name. While I didn't see it coming, I'm now lying on my back on the floor of his sitting room with a throbbing pain in the right side of my face. Seeing John's clenched fist gives me a clear indication of what just happened.

John Watson has just punched me in the face.

I thought he'd be over the moon to see me.


	11. What the Hell, Sherlock?

**A/N:** And so the drama begins. As does the explanation. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

"What. The. HELL, Sherlock?" I yell. "You're alive. You've been alive this whole time. This whole year, I thought you were dead. DEAD, Sherlock, do you know what that means?" I'm trying not to be too loud so I don't wake up my son, but I know I'm failing. "It means I thought you were gone. For good. That I'd never see you again. That I'd never find you lounging about on the couch in that old blue dressing gown of yours. That I'd never see you stare out at Baker Street like you would on some nights. That I'd never see you working on experiments in the kitchen. That I'd never see you watching awful telly programmes."

I know some of these things sound insignificant, but I'm trying to make my point clear.

"I thought I'd never hear you again. Never hear that baritone voice calculating another criminal's next move. Never hear you pester the other Yarders. Never hear you shout in glee that we're facing another serial killer! Never hear you play your violin at the oddest hours of the night! Never hear you shoot holes in your wall out of sheer _boredom_!"

Why am I saying these things? They're trivial instances. Do they really... mean something to me?

"I thought I'd lost you. And... in reality... I was the one who was lost."

He's looking at me, still on the floor, like some little toddler. A toddler who's broken his mother's heirloom teapot from the Victorian era, is being confronted about it, and he tries playing dumb.

It's infuriating. And heartbreaking.

"You pretended to be dead. You were just hiding. You _fooled_ me, Sherlock. You played me for a fool."

Now, he looks hurt.

"Oh, don't try looking like a hurt kitten, Sherlock. You've hurt me ten times worse."

Why am I saying these things? It's like I'm not even there. Just a witness to some fit of rage.

"Why, Sherlock? Why did you do this? Why did you fake your own death?"

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

He's angry at me. I've disappointed him again. Worse than the day we first met Moriarty. I'm not_ trying_ to look hurt like he says I am. I really _do_ hurt. At least, I think so.

"I did it for you, John." I'm telling the truth to him, but he just laughs. It's not a kind laugh.

"For me? Really? Ha! Why, because you were trying to protect me? By making me think you'd lost your life?"

"Yes! Because I wanted to make sure you still had yours!" I blurt. He looks a bit stunned. I take this opportunity to stand back up. "You did get my note, right? The one in the app I downloaded for you. What all it said was true. In all honesty, I thought I really was going to die that day."

"So, let me guess: You knew that call about the hotel patron was false, didn't you?" John's voice is getting deeper.

"I had a feeling it was, yes."

"Yet, you sent me anyway?" Correction: It's getting darker.

"Yes. Because I knew you'd be safer if you followed it. I knew Moriarty was lying in wait. He gave me a chance to write the note, and I left my scarf to ensure it didn't fall from the rock and get damaged. Also... as strange as this sounds coming from me, something for you to remember me by. A memento."

John's scoffing at me. Though, he's motioning for me to continue.

"Once I was done, I met Moriarty closer to the edge of the cliff. He lunged at me. We started struggling for quite a while. His hands round my throat. We inched closer to the edge. But... I was prepared for it. I was prepared to give my life if I could rid the world of this madman. If I could save you."

John sputters a chuckle. I don't like it.

"So, what happened then? You pull out some made-up martial art and throw him off the cliff?"

"No. I managed to pry his hands from my neck and as I did so, he lost his footing. He slipped, but grabbed my leg as he fell. I was holding onto the side of it for dear life, while he tried to take mine with him. He had a death grip on my ankle.

"'The game is over, Moriarty! You're dead!' I yelled down to him. He laughed his most sinister.

"'No, my dear fellow. The game is still on. No matter if this is your final problem, or if you live to see another day, it doesn't matter. I will be the death of you, Sherlock Holmes! One way or another!'

"Those words will forever haunt me, as will his scream as he fell after I kicked him off."

John stares at me. This time, it looks like he really is interested in hearing what I have to say. He sits in an armchair.

"So... what then?" he asks. I sit down on the edge of his coffee table

"I was stuck. I couldn't climb back up from where I was. So, I sort of sidled my way to the side of the cliff. I finally found some handholds and footholds to climb with on that otherwise sheer wall. Once I'd gotten to a point where I could stand, I did and started running. I feared that Moriarty had back up hiding somewhere up there, so I tried to find a good place to hide. I finally parked myself under a large rock."

John is now fully absorbed in my retelling. I just hope he doesn't get too upset about this next part.

"I saw you there," I tell him. His eyes go wide. "I saw you find my scarf and phone. I heard you call my name. I nearly called to you myself."

"Why didn't you?" Here comes the disappointed tone again.

"Because, if anyone following Moriarty thought I was still alive they might kill you. I couldn't let that happen to you. So, I stayed silent and watched."

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

"What, like some kind of stalker?" I ask. He does kind of have those tendencies. I have a funny feeling he'd sometimes be watching me in my sleep.

"No, not really. Just an observer. I saw you call to me again. I am so sorry I put you through that. Truly, I am."

I want to believe him. I do believe him, somewhere in my heart. But my head... there's still too many questions. I stay silent and let him continue.

"Anyway, once you and the police were gone, I continued up the path. I then heard rumbling. I leapt forward and fell on the ground as a boulder just missed me. Then, I looked behind me, and there was a man standing with a sniper rifle. He must have used the butt of the rifle as a lever to move the boulder. He then started to right the rifle and aim at me.

"I don't know if I've ever run as fast in my life. Ducking behind trees and rocks. He was persistent. And clearly trying to finish the job."

A sniper rifle...

"Moran?" I ask. Sherlock's eyes widen at my mention of his name.

"Yes. It was Colonel Moran. How did you know?"

"I didn't know. I saw. Well, figured it was, anyhow. I'll tell you when you finish." I could tell he wasn't done, and I really didn't want him to get sidetracked. I want to hear the end of this.

"Right then. Well, it was indeed Colonel Moran who chased me. I tracked down other connections Moriarty still had left and shut them down with local authorities' help. More just leading them in the right direction."

"How'd you go about doing that? You'd need to preserve your identity somehow. You'd need funding..." It then dawned on me that he had trusted someone else with his secret. "Mycroft," I whispered.

Sherlock sighed.

"Yes. I told Mycroft. He was the only one who could get me what I needed. A new phone, false identification, and funding, as you said."

"So... you trust your brother, your self-proclaimed 'arch-enemy,' with everything and yet you trust me with nothing?" I know I have no right to say these things, but I want to know. I want to know what he really thinks of me. He looks appalled.

"John!" he exclaims, "I _do_ trust you! More than you'll ever know." He places a hand on my knee trying to reach out to me. He quickly takes his hand back, apparently realising what he did.

"Okay, then. So, next question: Why'd you come back to London?"


	12. A Plan

**A/N:** The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

"I had lost track of Moran. I then saw the Times report of the death of Ronald Adair, as well as interview pieces from a Colonel Sebastian Moran. I knew he was most certainly the same man. The photograph in the paper didn't hurt, either." John looks over at me a little incredulously.

"You only came back because of Moran?" John seems a little unsteady in his words, as if he doesn't want to know the answer, but asks anyway. I sigh.

"No, I'd wanted to return for a long time. His being here finally gave me an opportunity to do so. I went back to our rooms on Baker Street as myself earlier today. About two, I believe. Mrs. Hudson practically went hysteric at my entrance. It was all I could do to calm her so that it wouldn't give away where I was. Not to say that I wasn't glad to see her, mind you.

"I went into the sitting room and laid down on the couch, seeing that everything was just as I had left it, courtesy of Mycroft. Well, except one thing." I looked John square in the eye. "I didn't have my good friend John Watson sitting opposite me as you always had."

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

I'm touched. That he would regard me this way is so... for lack of a better word, _sweet_. And Sherlock Holmes doesn't do sweet. I mean, I'm still mad at him for making me believe a falsehood. But, when he's trying his darndest to be so sincere...

"I missed you, too, mate." He brightens up at this. I sigh. Then laugh a little and shake my head. He then starts looking rather morose.

"My condolences over Mary's death," he says quietly. I feel a lump in my throat. "Mrs. Hudson told me you called to tell her. I'm so sorry, John."

"Why? It wasn't your fault," I start. Sherlock looks at me rather intensely.

"Yes it was! If I hadn't lost track of Moran, Mary might still be alive!" he exclaims. Survivor's guilt. I know how that goes. All too well.

"You don't know that. If he hadn't gotten to her last night, someone else might have. She might have started internally bleeding or something. She could have gotten sick from the doctors not properly cleaning all the equipment. A whole range of things could have made Mary die that night. Or, she could have lived. We could have lived until we were old and grey. I don't know. But that doesn't matter right now. The fact remains that Mary has died. It's not your fault, Sherlock. I don't blame you for that."

I'm nearly crying while saying this. It's like when I was telling those I knew Sherlock had died. Every time I repeat it, it feels more real. The hole in my heart is throbbing. The lump in my throat is, too.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

I stop speaking for a while to take in what John has said. He doesn't blame me, even though I do. Even though it seems he's angry at me over a whole host of things, he's not angry about that. I'm glad. Once John appears to regain his composure, I continue.

"Thanks. Well, as I looked out my window to the familiar view, I noticed that Moran was apparently following me. He'd seen me enter. So, I formulated a plan. A plan I will act upon starting at about 10:30 tonight. A plan to capture Moran." I extend my hand to John. "If you would be so kind as to accompany me, I'd be most appreciative."

John stares at my hand. He then smiles a bit. He grasps it in his own.

"My dear friend. It would be a pleasure," he says. I then release my hand and spring up.

"Excellent! I just need to return to our flat to sign for a package. If you would call for a babysitter for the night, around ten or so, I'll be round to pick you up." John stands too.

"Sure. It'll be like old times, huh?"

"I suppose it will. Remember, though, John. Do _not_ mention that you've seen me today. To _anyone_. Otherwise, it'd ruin the whole thing. Understand?" John nods.

"Got it."

"Good man," I tell him.

"Just one thing before we put this to action," John says as I start putting my disguise back on.

"What's that?" John looks at me most seriously.

"Don't you EVER disappear on me again. Got it?" I smirk.

"I promise."


	13. The Vacant Room

**A/N:** Another short one. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

"Thanks so much for coming back, Rebecca," I tell her as I get ready to leave.

"No prob! Happy to help! I'm glad to know that your case is going well. Hope you get that guy!" she says. Always so concerned about others.

"Thanks. I do too. Keep watch of him. See you when I get back." We wave good bye and I head out, being careful to pocket my revolver without her seeing by using Sherlock's scarf as a cover. I figure he'd want it back, anyway. I wait out a little ways from my place when I see Sherlock coming to me.

"Ah, John. Good to see you. And I see you've brought me my scarf. Thanks. Let's go." He puts it back on and off we go, back to Baker Street. It really was like old times. Us, gallivanting around London in hot pursuit of a wanted criminal. Except, we were walking this time.

We reach the familiar walkways but instead of heading to 221b like we always would, we go to the buildings across the street from there, the Camden complex, I think it's called. It's dark. The place is going under renovation and construction, so it's empty and bare. As we climb up the steps, Sherlock notices one with a bit of a squeak to it when stepped on. He presses down on it a couple times, I guess to familiarize himself with the sound, and we continue upward. I make a point not to step on that one.

We then reach the room we were aiming for. There's no curtains on the window, so the streetlights make it pretty visible.

"What do you make of the view, John?" Sherlock whispers to me. We both carefully make our way over without being seen by anyone outside. I looked out across to the familiar window. The light is on. Someone is standing in the window...

"Sherlock... it looks like you." Just to be sure it's really him standing by me, I instinctively grab hold of his arm. He chuckles a bit as I let go.

"That's the package I mentioned. Had it commissioned as soon as I knew Moran had spotted me. Clever, isn't it?"

"Very," I reply. Leave it to him to know someone who can make a model of him in only a few hours.

At that moment, we hear that creak again. Someone was coming up.

Sherlock and I hurry to another part of the room, a back corner where not even our shadows could be seen.

And in he comes.

Moran.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

I can tell. John is tense. He's anxious for us to just run over and grab Moran. And as much as I share that sentiment, we can't do that. We have to let him think he's killed me.

John starts lifting his revolver, silently. I place my hand on his and bring it down. John is about to whisper a complaint when I place my other hand across his mouth.

"Not now" I mouth to him. I then remove my hands from him. Without tearing my eyes from Moran, I slowly undo my scarf. I curl it in my hands, tightening it. I stare at him intently.

Moran has started to arm his weapon, crouched over the now opened window. He places the barrel on the windowsill. Puts his face to the scope. Closes one eye.

Ready...

Aim...

Boom.


	14. Shout

**A/N:** Another short one, relatively speaking, but action-packed. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

"HAH!" Sherlock yells at the top of his lungs and practically flies over to Moran after he's fired his gun. He tries using his scarf to strangle Moran, but Moran, being a more sturdy man and actually taller than Sherlock, backs him up into the opposite wall, knocking him off.

"Sherlock!" I call and run to face him, gun in hand. Moran sees me coming, though, and brings up his foot, kicking my gun out of my hand, and then punching me in the face. It knocks me back a bit, a little off kilter. As I'm recomposing myself and going to get my gun, I hear Sherlock yell at him.

"Don't you DARE hurt my friend!" he screams, and punches Moran across the face.

If Moran isn't enraged already, he is now.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

"Don't you DARE hurt my friend!" I hear coming from the third floor window of the Camden complex across the street. I can't believe my ears. It sounds like Sherlock.

"Come on!" I call to the squad. I'm joined by Donovan, Anderson, and a few other officers. The six of us burst into the building, running to the third floor.

"I'm coming, Sherlock," I mutter to myself.

The Viewpoint of Crime Technician Anderson

"Don't you DARE hurt my friend!"

That couldn't be right. I could have sworn I heard Holmes. But that's impossible, right?

"Come on!"

Either way, Lestrade had us come down to Baker Street due to some tip he got on his phone. Now, we're running headlong into the Camden building, chasing after some phantom voice of Sherlock Holmes.

As if this case couldn't get any stranger.

The Viewpoint of Sgt. Sally Donovan

"Don't you DARE hurt my friend!"

I probably look as though I've seen a ghost. I certainly think I've heard one. Sounded just like Holmes.

But that couldn't have been him. He died about a year ago. John told us all about it when he returned from Switzerland. Fell from Knickerbocker Falls, or something like that.

"Come on!" Lestrade orders. We follow close behind, running across the street to the complex being renovated.

I look over at Anderson. He seems just as confused as I am.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

Moran has started practically wrestling with Sherlock about the room. I've got my gun back, but I can't get a clear shot. Every chance I think I get, Moran moves so Sherlock would get hit, too. Moran tackles Sherlock to the floor, seizing him by the throat...

There he is, John. The man who killed your wife. Nearly killed your son, too. Also has been trying to kill your best friend for an entire year. You have your gun. You've got a clear shot. You have it armed and loaded. You have motive.

Why.

Don't.

You.

Shoot?


	15. The Parallel is Exact

**A/N:** The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

Why don't I shoot Moran?

...Because, I'm a father.

I whack him upside the head with the butt of my revolver, knocking the criminal out. He falls limp onto Sherlock, who quickly pushes him off.

"Well done, John!" Sherlock wheezes. We smile to each other and I give him a hand up. At that moment, we hear the commotion of several footsteps running up to us.

"Scotland Yard! Come out with your hands..." Lestrade's booming voice calls. He stops as he enters. His eyes fixate straight on Sherlock. "...up?" Donovan, Anderson, and a few others come into view behind him. Donovan looks startled. Anderson, dumbstruck.

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

Well, Greg, there he is. Your doubts put to rest, there's the man himself.

"Sherlock? Is that really you?"

"Lestrade! Good to see you again. I take it you got my message, seeing as how you arrived right on time." Sherlock smiles at me. It's a little weird.

Oh, who am I kidding, it's _all_ weird!

The Viewpoint of Crime Technician Anderson

Impossible. He's alive.

"You..." I start. I don't know why I say anything. I never really have anything I'd want to say to him.

"Yes, me. Is that a new type of product you're using in your hair? You look a bit shinier. Waxier." He appears to be restraining himself a bit.

Well, as far as his comments go, it could have been worse.

The Viewpoint of Sgt. Sally Donovan

"Nice to see you back," I try to say sincerely. I'm glad he's okay but I'm never really happy to see him.

"Good to see you as well, Donovan. Have you been working out? You seem a bit more toned in... certain muscle groups than when I last saw you."

I'm not sure if this was meant to be a compliment or one of his backhanded comments of his.

The Viewpoint of Crime Technician Anderson

_Much_ worse.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

Oh, I love being able to mess with their heads again! But one thing I love more is stopping criminals. Interesting ones, mind.

As the other officers handcuff Moran, the man starts shouting abuse at me.

"You fiend! You clever, clever fiend!" he says. Not the worst I've been called, and I'm about to tell him so, when _John _shuts him up.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran," he begins, coolly. "Formerly of Her Majesty's army. One of the best snipers on call. I'd wager that in a different day and age, you'd use those skills as a hunter, would you not? A hunter of animals, Moran, not people, though you do seem to be a fan of that."

Oh, he's _good_.

"Tigers would probably be your best game. You'd probably lay your trap as you stand waiting in a tree for the poor orange beast." He's right in his face now. "Well, too bad for you, you've barked up the wrong one. You've really gotten yourself into a jungle. _My_ jungle. London's streets are _my_ jungle, and _you_, Colonel Moran, _are MY TIGER_! And I hope to see you caged for a very, _very_ long time."

_Very_ good.

"The parallel is exact," I add.

Judging from John's smile to me, that must have felt pretty good.

"You may or may not have just cause in arresting me, but why do I have to sit here and be harassed by these _amateurs_?" Moran asks. I grimace. John and I are hardly amateurs after what all we've been through. "If I'm in the hands of the law, let things be done the _professional_ way. Though, I must ask: On what charge are you arresting me?"

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

As he asks this, I go over to Moran's gun. I motion for Anderson to follow. I notice a bullet casing on the floor nearby it.

"That it, Anderson?" I ask. Anderson picks up the casing with one latex gloved hand. He turns it over a bit in the light and looks at it under a lens. He smirks.

"That it is, Lestrade. This casing matches the ones found in the rooms across the street from the Adair crime scene," he starts. Moran's face starts to fall. "As well as in the thought-to-have-been cleaned out helicopter," he tells us smugly. He's got every right to be. Moran's turning pale.

"Well, then, Moran, you are charged with the murders of both Ronald Adair and Mary Morstan-Watson. Take him to the Yard, boys."

"Well done, Lestrade. I knew you could figure it out," Sherlock says to me after they've cleared out to the car with Donovan.

"Couldn't have done it without John and Anderson," I say to him, giving credit where it's due. He looks a bit surprised when I mention Anderson, though.

"Well, then." He pauses for a sec and clears his throat. "Well done, Anderson."

That must have taken a lot.

The Viewpoint of Crime Technician Anderson

_Much_ better.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson.

After everyone's left, Sherlock and I stay standing in the vacant room. I'm still surprised I could have said all that. Not sure what I was channelling, but it could come in handy in the future.

Sherlock walks back with me to my place before heading back to old 221b himself. When we get to the door, Sherlock speaks up.

"You asked me earlier why I came back to London." He smiles. "To see you, safe and sound."


	16. The Yarders

**A/N:** And now we come to the concluding chapters of our story. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

_The Members of Scotland Yard_

The Viewpoint of Sgt. Sally Donovan

So, he's back. Holmes is really back. Can't wait to see John's blog entry about _this_ one.

To be honest with myself, I'm actually glad he's back. Not to say I care about the man. He is the biggest nusiance around the Yard, constantly taking over our cases, as well as always knowing somehow when I've had sex, and on occasion with whom (which really is none of his damn business).

But he does make things a little less dull around here. I know when he's on one of our cases I won't be stuck doing paperwork, anyway.

Welcome back, Holmes. Just keep your nose out of my personal affairs, please.

The Viewpoint of Crime Technician Anderson

Well, he's back. Sherlock Holmes has returned to grace us with his ever-arrogant presence. Figures he'd just be hiding, or something, the sod.

I admit, though, I'm still reeling from last night. To think that Holmes would actually compliment me. Sure, it wasn't without Lestrade's insistence, but it was good to hear.

I'm not saying I live for his acknowledgements or anything. I don't. (If I did, I'd have died years ago.) But it was good to be acknowledged for once.

Still not telling him he's brilliant.

The Viewpoint of Pathologist Molly Hooper

I just heard Sherlock's alive! I'm so happy! Yay! It'll be nice to see him around Barts again! Oh, how I missed him!

Yes, I realise there's really not much hope for us romantically, but a girl can dream, right? Better than some _other_ people I've turned my attention to, I'll tell you that! Ugh. At least _he's _still dead.

Anyways, things are really returning back to normal here. John looks like he's coming together. It was pretty sad having to do an autopsy on his poor wife to figure if that substance he found was in her IV. I'm glad it matched, though. Otherwise, we may not have connected Moran to her death. I'm glad I was able to help in this case.

I'm glad Sherlock's returned!

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade.

Still laughing to myself about that text. So casual. So him. Can't believe I had doubts. That had to be him.

I'm glad we finally caught that S.O.B. Moran. We finally got our last link. And, again, it was thanks to bloody Sherlock Holmes. Figures. Can't live with him, can't live without him.

Seems like things are gonna start turning normal around here. He'll come traipsing in looking for cold cases, start squabbling with Anderson, make some smart remark to Donovan, then calmly ask me for the files. Once I give 'em, he'll turn right round and leave.

Nice to have some sense of normalcy again.


	17. Baby Humor

**A/N:** Oh, babies. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

_At 221b Baker Street_

The Viewpoint of the Landlady Mrs. Hudson

Oh, I'm so glad to see Sherlock home! When he came home yesterday, I thought I was seeing things. I think he was rather embarrassed that I'd hugged him! But I was just so glad to see him that I couldn't help myself!

I'm also a bit proud he had me help with a case this time! He had me stay behind with that odd wax statue of him by the window. He told me to stay on my hands and knees so there'd be less chance I'd get hurt when the statue was shot at. He then instructed me to turn the model every once and again to make it look like it was him.

An odd request, but I was happy to be able to help him do more than his laundry for once. (Even though I'm his landlady. That boy does need help sometimes.) When the shot came through, I almost thought I would die from shock! Thankfully, I didn't. I even picked up the bullet from the carpet for him. He said I was becoming indispesible!

Well, I should hope so, Sherlock! You're indispensible yourself.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

I awoke this morning in my own bed, in my own pyjamas, got up to put on my own dressing gown and plopped down on my own couch in my own flat.

It's good to be home. Although...

I look over at the armchair. John's chair. Empty. It doesn't seem right. I decide to text him, then.

_Morning, John. Up for a spot of coffee? SH_

I hope I didn't wake him. A few minutes later, my phone buzzes in response.

_mornigtewuoradsyahgehsi_

...I'm sorry, what?

* * *

><p><em>John's place<em>

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

"Sherlock, that's my phone, not a toy. Give it here!" I know he's just a baby, only over a day old, but still. I ought to chain my phone to my pocket or something. All the younger kids do it. The ones with multicoloured hair and piercings all up and down their heads, anyway. The little ASBO magnets.

I plop little Sherlock on my knee and text with the other hand. The one not covered in baby spit up, that is. Why wake me up, crying like your hungry, just to regurgitate it back on my arm? Baby humor, I suppose.

_Morning to you too, Sherlock. Sorry, the little one got a hold of my phone. We'll meet you at the Criterion in twenty. Got to clean up first. JW_

I sigh as little Sherlock is babbling to himself. I can feel his insides rumbling on my arm. "Please don't spit up again!" I plead, even though I know it's useless.

...Well, wish granted. Albeit not how I planned. Time to change his nappy again.

...And out of my pyjama trousers. I liked these ones, too.


	18. Sherlock, Meet Sherlock

**A/N:** The penultimate chapter. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

John arrives at the Criterion with a baby carrier containing his son that I still don't know the name of. As they come over, I get a look at him for the first time. He does look like I'd imagine John would have as an infant. Distance between brows, eye shape, nose shape, ear shape are all consistant with John's. The only discrepancy is the eye color. They look more like Mary's, if I remember correctly.

"Morning, Sherlock," John says as he sits down and sets his baby in another seat at the same table. "Meet Sherlock."

I look at him a little confused.

"I'm sorry?" He chuckles a bit and motions his head to the baby.

...He didn't.

"You... named him... for me?" I manage to say. John sighs, smiling.

"No, I named him after the Sherlock who lives five doors down from me." I smile a little. Wouldn't be John without a little sarcasm. "In all seriousness, though, yeah, we did. Probably would have even if you didn't 'die' beforehand. You were the catylist in our getting together. Not only that, but my best man! We didn't really like any boy names on either side of our family, so we went with yours. You don't mind, do you?"

I'm pretty sure my face looks rather silly right now.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

While I'm not sure what I was expecting when I told Sherlock I'd named my son after him, this wasn't quite it.

He looks... rather silly, actually. Like he's happy but trying to hide it. His eyes are shining and the corners of his mouth are twitching upward. But it seems like he's trying to command the rest of his face in opposition. As if he's proud, but doesn't really want to show it for some reason or another.

"That's very kind of you to do, John," he says finally. "I'm flattered. Thank you."

"...I hear a 'but' in there somewhere."

"But, 'Sherlock' isn't that common a name. And there's no real way to shorten it. Someone back in primary school once tried to call me 'Sherly'. Gave him a black eye for it."

I raised an eyebrow at that one.

"So, what's his middle name? You did give him one, didn't you?" I nod.

"Yeah. Gregory. For Lestrade," I explain. He looses a sigh of relief.

"Greg is a fairly normal name. That'll save him a long time of teasing."

"You were teased?"

"_Relentlessly_. And not just because of my name, mind you. I'd give you the details, but there's a child present."

I imagine it had something to do with his study habits and lack of people skills, but I'm not going to press him if he doesn't want to tell me.

"That's fine," I tell him.

"It's all fine," he tells me. "Speaking of fine, what are you going to do about your living arrangements?"


	19. A Sense of Normalcy

**A/N:** The final chapter. The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

"My living arrangements?" I repeat. Sherlock nods. "Well..." I start. I guess I'd never really thought about it before now. I'm safe from having to answer, at least for a while as we order our coffee. Sherlock asks for his usual: black, two sugars. He guesses I'll go with my usual, but he's wrong. I could use the waking up.

"I'll have what he's having, actually," I tell the waitress. Sherlock looks a bit surprised. I love that look when I can get it. It's hilarious.

So, she leaves, and once again, Sherlock asks me about my living arrangements. Is he implying he wants me to move back to Baker Street? I mean, it would be nice, but with the baby...

"I... wouldn't go as extensive in my experiments around him. I'd ensure everything in the kitchen was cleaned up once I finish."

Is... he trying to be accomodating? Sherlock Homles, _accomodating_? I can hardly believe my ears.

"Thanks, Sherlock, but, um..." I start, dreading that I actually have to finish this time. "It's... complicated." God, I sound like a teenage girl trying to explain to her parents that she's dating a guy with three ASBOs.

"How?" he asks. There's that toddler again. This time the overtly curious kind that just won't stop asking questions. I sigh and run my hand over my face. Come on, John, just tell him.

"Well... I know you're not one to believe in the supernatural or anything..." Oh, way to lead in, John. Bravo. "But, pretty much everywhere I turn in that house... I see Mary. I remember her. Little things we did together. It's the same as when I thought I lost you. Everywhere I turned in old 221b I kept seeing you. Doing the things you always did." I sigh again. Maybe sighing's actually my catch phrase? "You must think I'm crazy."

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, I don't. Please, continue."

That's good. 'Cause what I'm about to tell you may sound even crazier to you.

"Well, before I do anything with the house, I'd have to do something about the things in it, and I can't do that... until I go over Mary's will."

"She had a will?"

"Yes. We both do." Sherlock stares at me with a look that I think is akin to horror.

"You... you have a will?" he asks slowly and quietly. I nod.

"Yeah. We did it just to be on the safe side. If anything were to happen to her in childbirth, or if anything were to happen to me on the cases Lestrade calls me to, we wanted to make sure our boy was taken care of. So we had wills drawn up," I explain carefully. Sherlock nods slowly, not taking his eyes off me.

"Right. Well, if you want someone with you when you go over it..."

"...I'll let you know, I promise." Sherlock smiles a little at this. I clear my throat as the lady comes back with our coffees. We both mutter our thanks and Sherlock pays her. I take my cup into my hands and sip from it.

It's... more bitter than what I was expecting. Even with the sugars. Though, whatever it takes to keep me awake, I'll take it.

"So," I say between sips, "The next thing would be to have to put the place back on the market, hold an open house or twelve, which will be a bit hard, what with trying to hide all the baby things. I'd have to meet potential buyers and hope they don't try to haggle me down to a lower price, put the house under contract and also have a place to live as back up..."

"Our flat is always open to you, John," Sherlock assures me. I smile. I know that.

"Thanks. So, all that could take, oh, a month at least thanks to our economy." I sigh and shake my head. This is going to be a nightmare.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes

So, John needs a place to stay. Obviously, he should pick our flat. Every time I mention it, he gets a look in his eyes. I think it's nostalgia. He misses it there. I miss _him_ being there. It's simple. Simplicity in itself. And if I have to wait a month for him to do so, I will.

And, yes, I'll curtail my home experiments... slightly.

I then hear the door opening. I look up... and I'm not exactly enthused as to who arrives, though moreso than I would have before my "death". John sees that I'm looking past him and he turns around.

"Mycroft?" he says.

Indeed, it is my brother who enters.

"Good morning, you two. Glad to see you've found your way back to one another."

"Hello, Mycroft. What are you doing here?" I find myself asking semi-dryly.

"I was hoping I could join you, albeit breifly." John nods.

"Sure, take a chair." He does and starts smiling. Okay, what's he want this time?

"Is this your little one? He looks so much like you. Though, the eyes are more reminiscent of Mary," he says thoughtfully.

"Yeah, I noticed that too. I'm glad. Saves him from looking too normal," John adds.

"Name?"

"Sherlock Gregory Watson." Mycroft smiles a little brighter, if you can describe it as such.

"Oh, after my brother and the detective inspector? How nice." I'd ask how he knows Lestrade's first name, but I know it's pointless. He knows everything. "So, what did you two seem so absorbed in conversation about, dear brother?"

"Ah, well, I'm kind of trying to find a way to sell my place. Too many memories." Mycroft turns serious again. He stares right at John and crosses his arms, placing his umbrella on the back of the chair.

"Describe it," he orders.

"Um... two stories, a sitting room, kitchen, dining area, a study and a half bath on the first, two bedrooms, one is the master, the other the guest, which I had been using as his room," pointing to his baby. "Master bath, and that's it for the second. Oh, and there's a small attic." Mycroft starts smiling again.

"I'll take it. For whatever price you'd like."

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

I'm speechless. I can see that Sherlock is, too. Did Mycroft Holmes, the living government, really just offer to buy my place?

"Really?" He nods. "Wow. Thank you. But, um, why would you want somewhere like that?" He turns thoughtful again.

"Well, it's not just for me. It's for my club, the Diogenes. We were looking for another place to meet up that was a bit closer to where everyone lived. Your place sounds perfect for that."

"Wow. Thank you. Again," I find myself saying. "Well, I'll still need to make it official..."

"That's fine. Text me when you want to have the open house. Have your real estate agent with you when you do. I'll bring my chequebook." I can't believe it. Nor can I thank him enough. "Now, what other matters need attending to?"

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that. Sherlock's already volunteered to help with what's left." It's not that I don't appreciate Mycroft's offering, and I'm sure with his connections things might go a bit more smoothly with the lawyer, but I want Sherlock there. I don't want him to feel excluded in helping me. Plus, if I'm going to live with him again, I want him to know that I trust him with important stuff like this.

It looks like Mycroft understands. Never can tell with that one.

"Understood. Well, it was nice seeing you two again, and very nice meeting your son. Take care. Good morning." He then takes up his umbrella and leaves. I think he's the only one I know who still uses "good morning" as a farewell phrase.

Anyway, Mycroft's going to buy my house. And Sherlock's going to help me settle with the conditions of Mary's will. Once those are taken care of, I've got a good feeling that I'll end up living in 221b Baker Street once more.

It'll be nice to have some sense of normalcy again.

* * *

><p><span>The Viewpoint of Mr. Mycroft Holmes<span>

"Sir? Why did you buy that house? Your club is much further away," my assistant reminds me, fiddling with her blackberry as usual. As we walk back to the car, I explain.

"I know that. But, they don't need to. I'm doing this for one reason only." She glances over at me, quickly returning her gaze to her screen.

"What's that, sir?" I smile a little to myself.

"So that once again, Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson are free to devote their lives to examining those interesting little problems... which the complex life of London so plentifully presents."

* * *

><p><strong>Credits<br>**"The Adventure of the Empty House" from _The Return of Sherlock Holmes_ originally written by **Sir Arthur Conan Doyle  
><strong>_Sherlock_ created and produced by **Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss  
><strong>_A Baby and a Vacant Room_ written by **pkmndaisuki  
><strong>The character of Rebecca was based on my good friend **R. K. Sprague **(who is on ffnet!)

**A/N: **Thus the story ends. Please leave your thoughts by reviewing or sending me a PM. Stay tuned for another case coming soon!

Also, as I was writing this (inspired by the lovely verityburns' podfic idea) I recorded myself reading this story (but I decided to try my hand a voice acting and [attempted to] imitate the characters. More on that on my profile). **If anyone can tell me how to upload audio files online, please let me know in a PM.** Thanks!

~pkmn


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